


Butterflies Are Like Secrets In a Woman's Heart

by QueenOfPlotTwists



Series: 31 Day Yu-Gi-October Halloween Challenge [5]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: 31 Days Of Halloween, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gardens & Gardening, Halloween Challenge, October Prompt Challenge, Russian Mythology, Talking Animals, The House Is Alive, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26837311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfPlotTwists/pseuds/QueenOfPlotTwists
Summary: Having impressed Baba Yaga's infamous house and made it past her gate of bones he meets the rest of her entourage of pets, and just may discover a few secrets about his ambiguous grandmother, his lost mother--and himself.Sequel to Eyes Like WindowsPart 4 of Prequel to the Walking House or How Yami came to be the notorious Baba YagaDay 5 of 31 Day Y-G-October/Halloween Prompt ChallengePrompt 3: Insects
Series: 31 Day Yu-Gi-October Halloween Challenge [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947991
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Butterflies Are Like Secrets In a Woman's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was very much inspired by the prompt :)  
> And i have a confession to make--I do not like bugs. I'm not afraid of them and i would much rather catch and release them kill them, but I prefer lady bugs and crickets and spiders to the occasional creepy, crawly, many-limbed bugs no thanks!
> 
> I actually had a few ideas for this one including a Hades and Persephone idea, then a Deathless and Baba Yaga idea but in the end...I went with this and i love the symbolism.
> 
> Day Five of 31 Day Y-G-October/Halloween Prompt Challenge
> 
> Prompt 3: Insects

Stepping through the fence of bones, gave Yami the impression of stepping into another world: one that was overgrown and wild just as it was meticulously manicured. The front porch was no porch but a beautiful courtyard that branched all around the house: paths of white stones meandered among flower beds, hedgerows, vegetable gardens, fruit trees, flowering plants and thick leafy green shrubs. Window boxes over flowering with herbs decorated the windows. Tangled ivy vines curled up and along the stone towers and dark violet wisteria curled along suspended terraces. Everything was in full bloom and the garden was alive with the hum and buzz of insects.

Everywhere he looked, butterflies fluttered among the flowers and battled each other for the best spots. Humming bees buzzed along from flower to flower on their way back to the hive he spotted in the corner. Walking in a trance, Yami barely managed to stop himself as a train of tiny black ants made their way across one of the white stone paths. Crickets chirped and hopped among the grass. Spiders made their glittering webs in the safety of hedge bushes away from danger. He spotted a praying mantis camouflaged among the silvery gray and black bark of a tree, and heard the buzz of dragonflies darting about a small pond.

Stunned at how a pond could possibly exists in a moving courtyard—and how none of this was disturbed by the house’s earlier dancing, he gasped when he saw the famous birch tree in the heart of it all, leaning over the pond like a woman looking in a mirror and appearing to prune her leaves as if they were hair. As he stepped closer, he could just make the faint outline of a face in her trunk—like looking at a face in the clouds—those two deep grooves in the bark were her eyes, the long point of a branch between them was her nose, the upturned curve of the wood, her pouting lips.

He stepped closer, a branch snapping under her foot. She shot up quickly sending him stumbling back in surprise. She moved as though to smack at him with her branches when the Bone Mother appeared out of brushed and snapped. “Leave him be birch! He’s one of mine! You will treat him as such!”

The birch stopped, frazzled and made a shuttering sort of gesture before she bent over to look at him. Yami shivered under her scrutinity.

Then she appeared to smile and her leaves and branched rustled jollily like she was laughing, placed a branched behind the small of his back and scooped him back to his feet, in approval of him. Yami offered a small wave and smile back, still too stunned to speak. She pulled he branches to her mouth and shivered, like a giggling girl, and flashed him a saucy wink.

The Baba Yaga shot forward and glared at him, pulling her grandson behind her. “No tricks you!” she snapped waving a stern gaunt finger at the birch, a threat to curse her. “I’ll not have you toying with this one.”

The tree slumped, pouting then arched her back and turned away, branches crossed and the tiny point branch Yami took for her nose arched high in the hair.

“Ignore that one,” the Baba warned with a matronly groan. “She’s as vain as the rest of them. Come, come.”

He followed after her, stunned more and more by the expanse of the yard. “What is all this, grandmother?”

“My garden, of course!” The old woman cackled as if the answer was obvious.

“I can see that,” Yami countered, unable to help the wonderment in his voice. “I meant where has it all come from? How does it stay like this when the house is always moving?”

“Oh it’s grown used to the house by now,” the Baba laughed. “It’s been here long enough, as for the garden itself, well…” She stopped, paused, remembering. “It was a gift to me…from very long ago.”

She spoke no more on the subject than that, but to Yami’s surprise there was a sudden wistfulness to her voice, a sense of remembrance invoking times long past, emotions long lost and something—no, someone.

He had no time to question her further as the front door came into view—where the huge hound slept on the front porch and the cat was curled up on the open windowsill. Huge, brown and wolf-like in appearance and face, it was easily the biggest animal Yami had ever seen. His feline companion was no different—the tuffs of fur on its feline face, long powerful legs and pointed ears were all reminiscent of a Russian lynx rather than the cuddly house cats Yami had grown accustomed too in the village, but its snow white fur was fluffy and sleek, and it sported a long fluff tail that would not be out of place on an arctic fox.

Both animals rose from slumber at their Mistress’ approach. The hulking beast have a huge yawn revealing a wolf-like snout and a mouth full of teeth. Standing at its full height the beats almost dwarfed the Baba but it nonetheless sniffed and licked her affectionately. The cat followed suit: arching its back as it awoke, it hopped down and brushed its fur against the side of her leg and cloak, demanding to be pet.

Their glowing eyes fell on the boy behind her: their gazes locked with Yami’s. His heart pounded under the gaze, grateful neither had moved to bite or scratch at him—yet.

“Leave him be,” the Baba said with much more gentleness than she had the Gate and the Birch tree. “He is one of mine, and you will treat him as such.”

“Sveltana?” the hound—to Yami’s amazement—spoke and sounded excited. It looked to the lady for confirmation, but it was the cat who answered.

“Her son,” she purred. “I can smell her mark upon him.”

“Which makes him one of mine,” The witch repeated with just as much authority. “You will treat him as such.”

With this declaration the hound bounded over to Yami who shrieked just as he was pounced upon and knocked to the ground by the hulking dog, and felt the long slimy wet tongue drag itself up his neck and face. Despite his terror, he laughed under the ticklish treatment and tried in vain to shove the playful creature off of him. It obeyed only in ceasing its licking and plopped its massive weight down on the boy’s lap.

Once its companion was finished making a fool of itself, the cat strutted up with far more dignity and nuzzled first his hand, then his side, rubbing his snowy fur all over his chest and cheeks and marking him as her own. Recognizing the mark of ownership as a sign of affection, Yami scratched behind her ears and stroked her back. She responded by purring happily and flicking her tail across his face.

“I like him,” she purred, rubbing her cheek against Yami’s and moved gracefully over his lap. “It’s been so long since we had a child in the house. Not since Svetlana—”

A harsh sound cut her off and she shrieked and jumped behind Atem, peeking out her head in the crease between his arm. Yami looked down at her surprised, then searched for the source of the noise, but saw only the harsh eyes of his Grandmother.

She shook it away and grinned toothily down at him over her crooked nose, amusement dancing in her old eyes. “See now, Myshka? This is your home now. You are my grandson. My house will treat you as such, my fence will not close to you, my tree will not swipe at you, my dog will not bite you and my cat will not scratch you. You will take care of this house with me and that is that.”

She patted her leg and the dog and cat both hopped to attention. Yami removed himself from the floor and followed the woman into the house.

“Do not fear, the house exists differently than other houses. It does not move within the fence as it does outside of it. Here is a different sort of dimension, a pocket of reality that is my own and now yours.” She explained as Yami was lead inside and left Yami alone to explore the nooks and crevices of the house.

It was not a one room cottage like he’d been expecting. The door opened into a living like room—he swore he saw the walls _breathing_. A large green and blue plaid armchair and ottoman sat comfortably in the corner between the glittering windows and a huge stone fireplace. Long low bookcase beneath the window sported an impressive collection for reading. A fire was burning cheerfully in the fireplace where a couch, area rug and several chairs were set up in a charming sitting area and the wall behind the couch sported a magnificent mural of a firebird visible in all its fiery glory when the Baba clapped her hands and the enormous chandelier overhead roared to life with flaming skulls.

Drapes and curtains hung from the walls, and through one Yami saw it led to another room with tons of windows and bundles of herbs hung upside down and drying in the window over a long wooden table clustered with bowls, pestles, knives, cutting boards and other tools while the walls were crowded with bookshelves sporting all variety of colorful bottles and liquids. Some with things floating inside of them.

High above the ceiling was arched with wooden beams the disappeared like a cathedral and Yami saw a narrow stairs that lead to the second floor: designed like a wrap-around with banisters overlooking the lower layer, and rooms divided only by wooden walls. Up a narrow set of stairs Yami spied a triangular loft space flooded with pillows and blankets and wondered if it was where the Baba slept.

He followed his aunt to another room that was clearly a kitchen with its enormous stove raised on a stone dais—large enough for someone to layout on comfortably, and its enormous fire place that took up the entirety of the wall and was made of stone, small holes in it acted as ovens and a huge cauldron and grate for cooking meat and boiling tea. On the mantle sat huge jars and bags labeled, flour, salt, sugar, tea and others. More drying herbs and bushels of garlic and onions hung from the rafters and multiple pots and crates and bins were cluttered all along the walls.

Already the Baba was quick to fill a kettle with water from one of the jugs and set it on the grate seasoned with some herbs she plucked from above. She then removed some dishes from the cupboard and set them on a small table with two mismatched chairs that sat in the corner by the window.

Further off in a corner, embedded in its own alcove with a chimney he sees another cauldron big enough to fit him on a daises dais where the Baba is placing wood and filling with buckets upon buckets of water and the witch lit a fire under it so casually that, Yami made it all the way back to the living room before the witch snatched him by the arm and dragged him back to the kitchen—specifically the giant pot.

Yami stays silent in his terror when she sits him down on one of the chairs and goes back to filling up the pot because all the stories he’s heard of Baba Yaga eating people involve disobedient children who should’ve known better than not to listen to their parents and he barely manages to squeak out how he can help and all but flees again when the witch points to the giant pot, but she’s learned and has her grip steady on his arm.

“It’s a _bath_ ,” she snorts before he can start begging and pleading with her not to eat him, only half-amused and shoves him along by the scruff of his neck and sits him on the rim of the tub. It’s warm but not boiling, not even hot enough to sting. The water behind him is tepid at best. “You _wreak_ worse than the dead.”

His terror cools to indignity at the insult and sniffs at his arm. He grimaces in disgust to realize she’s right.

She points to a wicker basket and a divider in the corner. “When the water’s warm enough, put your clothes in the basket, put on the fresh ones. The divider’s there if you wish to use it. When you’re finished I’ll have tea and supper ready.”

She goes off to continue her work. “And don’t forget to douse that fire. I won’t have you boiling yourself alive on accident.”

He knows she’s serious, but his heart is still pounding.

She whirls back to him then, a cackle in her throat, a toothy grin and a devious glint in those dark eyes. “And just to be clear I do _not_ eat children.”

She started laughing when Yami slides away and falls right into the cauldron sending a splash of water over the rub and dousing the flames and forcing him to have to take a tepid bath. He jumps up, furious, ignoring how uncomfortably his wet clothes stick to his skin or how old and filthy they are. “Then why start such a rumor?”

She laughs again, ginning toothily. “Can you think of a better way to get cantankerous little brats to behave?”

Yami can’t.

He resigns to his tepid bath, grateful for the chance to clean up regardless. He doesn’t remember how long it’s been since his last one. There is a towel and fresh clothes waiting for him when he’s finished. He tons the small clothes, the brocaded _sarafans_ and the wool pants and boots that are much warmer than his worn-out leather shoes, and a crimson coat trimmed with gold, that held with the chill. His dark hair is still damp but not enough to be uncomfortable.

He pushes aside the screen when he’s finished and joins his grandmother for tea. He wonder what to do about the bath just as the house creaks, groans and fire consumes the wet woods so quick and hot it all turns to steam and rises out the chimney—dirt, debris and all.

He devours his food until his empty belly is full and they two are alone sipping a tea, she says is specifically made more grief.

He remembers why he’s hear and asks again “Why did my mother never tell me about you?” He looks at his hands folded in his lap. His stomach churns and no amount of tea can calm his nerves.

The Baba sighs like a tree groaning in the wind. “Svetlana was the last of my children. I was old when I had her, thought clearly not as old as I am now. She, like all my children, wanted more to life than this little house in the woods that was always moving and always away from everyone and everything else. So one day, like all her siblings, she left. Ran off. With some boy, of course,” She snorted a laugh, a harsh, bitter rate of sounds like she should’ve known better than to be surprised by something so predictable.

“She was born of my ilk, you see, but unlike her siblings, who used their gifts and their powers to create their own stories, this place, this house…it frightened her, your mother.” Another sigh, like an old tree creaking under the weight of a strong wind. “There were... too many things she could not explain. This house that move and breathes though it only danced when she could not see it because it knew she did not like it. The spirits in the walls and the woods. A demon in the bathhouse. A cat whose shadow was not always a cat.”

As if confirmation, the enormous cat leapt up onto Yami’s lap and as she moved to make herself comfortable, he saw in the trick of the candle lights her shadows was, indeed, not always a cat’s shadow.

“Things a body cannot take stop of. Things you cannot bait and hook and catch. Things that are not of the mortal land. Things that are much older and stronger than the common faiths and tongues. Things that are ancient and powerful and cannot be controlled or exorcised with crossed and prayers because they were never enemies of He Who Created All of Us. Things she did not understand. And things she did not want to understand.”

The Baba paused to sip her now cool tea and she downed it like it were a shot of pure whisky.

“Her greatest secret and her greatest sin was loneliness, and I both raged against and understood her for it. It could not have been easy as she became older, what with only a cat and a hound and a birch and a chatty fence and an old hag for company, but I raged when she left me, oh how I raged when she left me, just when I needed her most.” There was no anger in her voice as she spoke those words, merely resignation and sadness.

A sudden guilt churned in Yami’s stomach.

“Was he my—”

“He was not your father,” The Baba snapped as if taking hold of the weed of his guilt and pulling it out before it could take root and flower. “The man she ran off with. He was not your father. Nor was the…man who beat her…your father.”

Yami already knew that. Knew it was _why_ he beat her. Perhaps he did not know it at first, but as he grew older, and more of his traits became apparent and his witch red eyes began to glimmer with fiery light he must’ve known that Yami was not, could not, be his.

“Is that why they killed her?” he asked, desperate to ask the question that still plagued his grief dark heart—the tiny flicker of guilt that latched onto it and devoured it like a hungry leech determined to leech his life dry and destroy him.

“Her death had nothing to do you with you,” she slapped down her tea and glared him dead in the eye, the dark violets od her eyes burning with a fire he remembered his mother’s whenever she looked him after his father had beaten her and told him, she blamed no one but the man who delivered the blow. “Banish the thought and banish it well. It did not matter it not matter in the end, none of it mattered because in their eyes she was something much worse—a witch. But not a witch with potions and spells who learned her arts by reading and research, no, she was a witch _born_ —the most terrible of all, a woman with power in her blood, power they could not control, and all the secrets of the world and the ancients in her soul. A woman they can’t control. A woman they had to destroy to keep them and their land ‘holy’.” She snorted so loud and laughed so hard she slammed her fist upon the table. “Won’t they be in for a shock when they face the maker and find the gates of paradise barred to them!”

Yami exhaled, still unable to feel relief…not yet.

“And my father…did she…did she leave him to?”

“No, she loved your father and then she lost him,” the Baba explained pouring them both another cup of tea. “I never met your father, and she knew better than to bring him to me, less I send him off to complete three tasks to prove his worthiness. But she loved him. I knew that much. When we, Myshka, love, I and those like me, when we love it is only once and it is forever. And she loved him. She would never have birthed his heir had she not.”

“Then why did she marry…him?” Yami growled, not wanting to say the man’s name.

“Who knows why she married him? Who can say what exists in a woman’s heart any more than a man’s?”

“And what of you grandmother? Did you not have a husband?”

“Of course not,” she laughs like a joke. “The Baba Yaga bows to the whims of no man and cannot be bound. Oh she may have lovers, yes, as many a she wants, but a husband?” She stood then and shoved open the window to the outside. The window box was alive with red clover and starflower. “That’s different. The Baba Yaga cannot have a husband any more than she can be a wife.”

“And yet, you had my mother,” Yami countered, stirring the contents of his tea. “You mothered children. You say no one can command you against your will, and that you love only once, so surely you must have loved in your great long life.” His smile was a smirk, and she recognized it as one she might have worn when she was young.

She offered him a smile, not a toothy grin, or a malevolent snicker but a genuine smile. “I have loved.” There was an almost dreaminess to her voice as she spoke it, as if recalling memories of days long past, and a man who’s embrace she’d come alive in. A single man who she truly did love, who she loves still, whom she would always have and always love, whose life and soul were hers just as her heart was his.

In that momen a butterfly fluttered in through the window, pressed fluttering kiss to her aged and wrinkled cheek, then landed gracefully upon her gaunt hand. Its wings when folded were the velvety violet darkness of the coming night, but once curled open, a secret it revealed just to her, she saw the rust red face and black markings outlining four blue and red eyes.

“Oh, yes, Adrik Myshka,” Overcome with memory the Baba touched something around her neck. Yami saw it glint out the corner of his eyes. A tiny glittering glass bead no bigger than a butterfly’s egg. “I have loved.”

**Author's Note:**

> Seems Baba Yaga has a past, herself...  
> For those of you not familiar with Russian and Slavic Folklore there are two characters who stand out the most: Baba Yaga, who is so many stories,,,either as a helper, antagonist or just the ambiguous witch we all know and love and her counterpart Kochi the Deathless, who remains immortal because his life is turned into a needle hidden inside an egg (the universal symbol of new life an potential) usually hidden in various animals in various places.  
> Sometimes he and Baba Yaga are siblings, sometime they are married, but they are usually never seen together....  
> I adore both these characters so in my story Baba Yaga's true love can only be Koichi the Deathless--it makes sense too, he, being immortal is an embodimdent of life and she is Death (but Death in the sense of the tarot card--the one who beings about change and catalysts).
> 
> The butterflies and insects of this story--since I was very much inspired by the prompt, that fill Baba Yaga's garden are all gifts to her from The Deathless.
> 
> The butterfly that lands on her is the Europan Peacock butterfly, one of the most common and beautiful butterflies in the Russian forests and very much adored by its people.


End file.
